Time is endless in thy hands, my lord.
There is none to count thy minutes.
Days and nights pass and ages bloom
and fade like flowers. Thou knowest
how to wait.
Thy centuries follow each other
perfecting a small wild flower.
We have no time to lose, and having
no time we must scramble for our
chances. We are too poor to be late.
And thus it is that time goes by
while I give it to every querulous man
who claims it, and thine altar is empty
of all offerings to the last.
At the end of the day I hasten in
fear lest thy gate be shut; but I find
that yet there is time.
From Gitanjali (Macmillan and Company, 1916) by Rabindranath Tagore. This poem is in the public domain.